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I look up, again, at the cold moon

pressing its face against the windowpane,

sucking the edges of the corner table,

closing the language door.

 

In sleep,

I am walking to the graveyard

waking every insect

not in sight.

 

And mornings

always full of father

splitting an anthology of breaths,

now capable only of bloodline

in my wife’s womb.

 

The moon won’t use the door, only the window.
– Mawlana Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi

(Feb 2017)
Italics | Rephrased from Mawlana Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi (translation by Coleman Barks)

 

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sleepers of the night

For Jack who is dead, his rapid-shrinking carcass
acrobat on my wall.

Splat! ‘Here goes one more bloody…’
my brother flipped out
while I sleep
like a senseless: muse-bleat
flitting in repellent-fumes
Jack The ripper had difficulty breathing
while I sleep

my 21st birthday-sleep.